


Uncounted Dreams

by ambiguously



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Force Ghost(s), Ghost Sex, M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguously/pseuds/ambiguously
Summary: Vader's dreams center around one hated face.





	Uncounted Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thymesis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/gifts).



-1-

The first dream is the fire. Vader remembers the fire licking hungrily up his body, consuming his flesh as the flames in his mind consumed his soul. He remembers the agony in his legs turning to unspeakable pain. He remembers screaming. Every detail is permanently affixed in his memory, and when he dreams, resting in the bacta that keeps his skin from decaying and peeling off his stunted, ever-dying body, he relives those excruciating minutes and hours.

He remembers Obi-Wan standing there as he burned, watching, not stepping forward and giving him the pity of death. He stands there in the dream, silent and judging, condemning his so-called brother to a horror beyond imagining. Vader sees him, screams at him, and in some dreams the words are shouts of hatred and in a few shameful dreams, they are pleas for the final mercy. In the worst dreams, Vader listens to him laugh. In every dream, he watches and does nothing, until he finally walks away.

Vader will never, ever forget that Obi-Wan allowed him to burn. Even if he tries, his dreams will remind him.

-2-

The second dream is worse.

In the second dream, his body is whole and youthful and filled with strength. The Force moves through him as a friend and companion, making him effortless in grace. He knows darkness, but his unruined face knows far more smiles than scowls.

The second dream reminds him of something else he cannot ever forget, the unbidden smile shaped at his mouth more painful and cracked than lips burnt by flame.

They were deployed to hold a system against a rumored Separatist invasion. The intel was good, and his troops joined forces with those under Obi-Wan's command. Together, they led their clones into the fray, weapons drawn side by side, and they fought for every centimeter of ground against the droid army, and they won the battle. It was a good day.

In his dreams, he always starts by walking through the camp, checking on his men. The wounded are being tended, but even they are in good spirits, saluting their General or asking about their comrades in arms. He places a comforting hand on a shoulder here, offers a munificent smile there.

"You did good work today. I'm proud of you."

The echoed pride on the echoed face, one the same as all faces, warms his heart. Every clone is different he has learned but tonight they are the same in their satisfaction at a task completed with honor. They are his men, and he is their General. They protect one another. They fight for one another.

"Thank you, General Skywalker," one says to him, bandaged arm saluting. Then he winces.

"Rest." Anakin makes the spoken suggestion stronger with his mind, watching the clone close his eyes.

"You sound like me," says a shadow, and Obi-Wan comes into the medical station to the cheers of his own wounded men. He passes among them, thanking them for their bravery today, and Anakin observes him. (Anakin. He is Anakin. Vader is not even a whisper of a nightmare here in the dark.) Obi-Wan isn't yet bowed by the war, isn't yet bent by loss, isn't yet broken by the wounds they will carve on one another. His body is young and strong, and his eyes glimmer with amusement. He is handsome and he is the best friend Anakin will ever know.

"Can't imagine why. Oh wait, it's because you taught me everything I know."

They leave together, heading first for a briefing, the details of which flitter through the dream like the ragged edges of dem-moth wings. The names of battalions march by, the names of planets orbit around his head, and these merge and separate with dream-logic. After the briefing, which lasts no time at all, the pair of them retire to their own tent. It's cool on this planet, and the dream remains unclear which planet they are visiting, presenting backdrops that melt into each other: dry desert stretching out all around, or misty swamps stinking of rot, or breathtaking mountains with crisp air, or thick forests and the calls of wild creatures from far away. He remembers them all, revolving through his dreams in a tumble of landscapes. It does not matter which planet they are on tonight. This happened too many times.

Their tent is lit by a small glowlamp, enough to see by, not enough to cast shadows. They have two bedrolls, which tie together to make a comfortable bed. It's easy on his knees as he kneels in front of Obi-Wan, pulling his cock from his trousers and sucking him in before he's all the way hard. They've done this enough that Anakin's mouth knows the shape of him blind, knows the taste of him better than he does his own dinner. His tongue goes to work, licking and slurping until the prick between his lips is plump with blood and want, and his own spit drips down his chin. Sometimes Obi-Wan grasps his hair, grabbing and tugging, urging him on, and Anakin reaches up with his hands, resting one against Obi-Wan's hip to keep steady. The other hand slides into Obi-Wan's trousers to pull his bollocks free, playing with them, holding the cool skin in his warm palm and stroking the tender area behind them with one knowing finger. Anakin knows how hard to suck, how gently to tickle, before he hears the soft groan that is his only warning before his mouth fills with salt.

Sometimes Obi-Wan tugs his hair, tugging him up, coaxing him to his feet before they shift positions. The layered bedrolls are soft on Obi-Wan's knees and elbows, and Anakin's spit is better used to coat his own hand before his slides his palm wetly over his own cock. He has to be careful, has to be slick enough, but this dream always knows his need. Obi-Wan is ready for him, cuntwet and hot as blazes when Anakin shoves into his welcoming, tight hole. They fuck in near silence, knowing their men will overhear if they don't. Many of the clones are in their own tents in twos, threes, and more, taking their earned pleasures in one another's familiar bodies. The generals have no need to be quiet with the soldiers groaning out there in the night, but there's such a thing as decorum. Obi-Wan always points that out, and he would say so right now if his mouth wasn't busy growling phrases from the gutter as Anakin drives into him. Everyone suspects, despite the care they take. Everyone knows soldiers bond best as brothers and lovers both. Anakin has been fighting by Obi-Wan's side for over ten years. He's been sleeping with him on and off since he was seventeen, at first driven mad with his own hot blood, and later out of more complicated desires. His waking mind blames Obi-Wan, naming him a monster for taking him to bed when Anakin was so young. His dreams know better, and know he harried and pursued his master until Obi-Wan gave in to what they both wanted. His dreams remember the heat of Obi-Wan's body squeezing him and remind him how good it felt.

Sometimes he doesn't recall the planet they're on, or the men in medical, or the monotonous briefing. Sometimes he closes his eyes and remembers the sight of Obi-Wan's face in the warmth of the glowlamp as he spreads Anakin's thighs apart, one blunt finger slick with oil working its way into him. His slippery hand wraps around Anakin's erection while Anakin writhes with want, begging Obi-Wan to stop teasing him and start fucking him. This dream can go on and on with him pinned between Obi-Wan's hands until he shouts. Other nights, Obi-Wan withdraws his finger and wipes it clean on Anakin's belly before lining up the head of his cock against the entrance he has prepared with such care. Even so, the first hard thrust tears a loud groan from Anakin's throat. "More," he says over and over, hating the whine he hears coming from his own mouth. There is no decorum, there is no hiding, there is only his cock hard as stone in Obi-Wan's grip and Obi-Wan's cock shoving deep inside him.

Sometimes they whisper promises to each other in the dark, their hands clasped tight as they stroke themselves together, harder and faster until it hurts, oh it hurts like burning and he needs this, and Obi-Wan tells Anakin he loves him, choking the words against his mouth.

He comes, and he comes, and even in his dream he knows he is spoiling the bacta in his tank.

Vader hates this dream.

-3-

This dream comes upon him while he is awake. Never when he is in a battle, never when he is shouting orders to the mindless minions who cower before him, or to the stupider ones who don't know they should. When he is meditating, alone in whatever spare quarters he has been granted on whatever ship he's commanding, musing on the awe-inspiring power given him by his own hatred and anger, then he dreams. 

Obi-Wan sits across from him, as real as life.

The first time, Vader arose from his stupor and slashed at the figure with his crimson blade, listening to the crackle of ionized energy as he sliced through empty air. The second time, he plunged his fist out, grasping at the dull, brown cloth of Obi-Wan's robe. Now he knows this is not real. The red lenses covering his eyes have a short, or the commlink inside his helmet is picking up phantom signals from space, or his mind is drifting. Nothing more.

"Hello, Anakin."

Vader ignores him, reaching into the hardened pit of his soul to remember the scorching fire, experiencing the memory his dreams will not let him forget. He cannot sense Obi-Wan Kenobi, therefore there is no one sitting in front of him.

"I know you can see me. I'm looking at my own reflection in your helmet. Hello," Obi-Wan says again, waving to himself in the dark pool of Vader's mask. He's growing older. Each time this dream happens, there is another line on his face, another lock of gray hair or streak of white in his beard. They will age like this together, Vader's visage pale and scarred under his armor, and the dream of Obi-Wan growing fallow like late autumn on Naboo.

"It's all right to admit you can hear me, Anakin. I wish you'd listened long ago."

"Anakin Skywalker is dead," he says to the apparition. "I am Darth Vader."

"I see," says Obi-Wan. "Hello, Darth." He waves again.

Anakin Skywalker is dead, but his irritated ghost lingers inside a heart kept beating by electronic pulse, and the ghost is rolling his eyes even as Vader's gaze remains locked.

"I will find you and I will strike you down. I become more powerful every day while you grow older and weaker and more insignificant."

"If you say so. I'd like to think what I've lost in spryness, I've gained back tenfold in wisdom."

"That would not be difficult. You were always a fool."

"I know. I was a fool who loved you, even though I shouldn't have. I still do. You know that."

"So end the Jedi, with a fool's emotions."

"Perhaps if more of us had been allowed to be so foolish, we might have survived."

"No." Vader is not going to meditate now, not with his dreams mocking him, not with the only man he ever loved watching him calmly with his faded blue eyes. He stands. "Go back to your wizard's castle, old fool. Throw yourself from the top of it as a favor to us both." He turns his back, waiting for the dream to fade as his meditation is dashed from his mind.

From right behind his ear, as though Obi-Wan is standing at his shoulder, he hears him say, "I will love you until the end, and I will forgive you. Come back to the Light. Come back with me, Anakin."

Vader spins, anger lashing out in a wave of powerful Force energy. "Forgive _me_?!"

The room is empty. The dream has faded. He is alone.

-4-

The waking dream changes after he cuts down his old master, his once lover, his best friend. Vader has been distracted, first by the presence of his old nemesis on Tarkin's vaunted space station, then by Kenobi's too-easy demise, and finally by the unusually strong presence of the Force in the pilot who destroys the station. After, there are questions and inquiries, and blame to be spread about like groundapple jam: who failed at Scarif, and who failed at Yavin, and who can be buried with the largest dollop of the sour, crushed, poisonous fruit? Krennic's name is flung into the dust so that Tarkin's legacy can be laid to rest with less dishonor. Vader isn't unscathed as the catastrophe digs scars into reputations, but he is not as hated as the dead when the Emperor wants answers. 

The hated dead have other things to do.

"Hello, Darth."

The spectre glows blue, like a hologram. It hounds his steps, standing silently beside him during meetings, vanishing only when the Emperor is watching. Vader is too aware his master is the one person who might be able to tell him for sure if he is seeing a ghost or going mad.

"It could be both. Ghosts aren't proof of insanity, but I'd say going on a twenty-year temper tantrum is a strong sign."

"Begone, spirit."

"No." Obi-Wan smiles impishly. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me. It's just like old times. Do you remember?"

"I remember killing you." He stalks down the corridors of the ship, concerned that his underlings will see him conversing with the walls. The rumors will start, and his sway over them will crumble, and he will find himself tossed into the dust when the Emperor looks to cast blame for the next failure.

Vader finds his quarters and shuts the door.

"I remember much more than that. I remember when you were a boy, and I took you to Ilum to collect your crystal for your lightsaber. You were so worried, but you stayed brave, and you saw it through."

"Ilum belongs to the Empire now. I destroyed that ridiculous waterfall myself long ago."

"Did it make you feel better? Has any of this made you feel better?"

His hands twitch. "Killing you again might."

"That's the saddest part for you, old friend. You're not even deriving any joy from your destruction. All these deaths, all the pain you've caused, and none of it has given you a moment of happiness. I feel sorry for you, Darth."

"Stop calling me that."

"All right, Anakin."

"BEGONE!" he shouts, and he knows the vocoder amplifies the word to echo outside the room.

But the ghost doesn't leave.

The ghost stays with him through his days. It watches him sadly during his treatments, pale blue under pale blue, taking in the ruined remains of Vader's body, the ruins Obi-Wan caused by not killing him, the one thing someone who truly loved him would have done.

"I'm sorry," says the ghost, and Vader cannot run away here, cannot flee the words, cannot reply. Obi-Wan walks toward the tank, and then he is inside the tank, inside the bacta with Vader. An incorporeal hand wanders over the bare flesh. Vader knows he can't feel it, knows there is no way Obi-Wan is touching him now, stroking the painful scars with a sorrowful love.

He knows this. He must be dreaming again.

He cannot possibly feel the tingle of spectral lips against his head, pressing kisses against his cheek, and down his neck, dragging fingers down his torso. Obi-Wan is not here. Obi-Wan is dead. Obi-Wan can't brush his hand against the vicious scars covering Vader's cock.

"Death is eternity," says the ghost. "I loved you in life, and I will love you forever. I promise you that, Anakin."

This dream is like the terrible dream, and Obi-Wan is tender with him now, his grip loose but firm. No one has touched Vader this way in two decades, not even himself. When he is in his suit, the inserted catheter is too painful for him to consider any attempt at pleasure. He is only free of the intrusive tube in this sticky bath, and he has no hands here. This impossible touch feels good as nothing has in far too long.

None are here to observe him save the medical droid that oversees his treatment. No one hears the whimper.

"I will be with you always," Obi-Wan says in the dream, his speed increasing the way they both know he likes. "I will watch you, and if you let me, I will guide you. I want nothing more than to see you happy again." Nerves long dead spark alive under his knowing hand. Vader wriggles in the bacta, unable to get away from the sensations, unable to thrust in for more.

"You are so beautiful when you come. It's all right. You can let go." He squeezes, and it's just right.

Vader howls under the breathing mask.

He is still dreaming when the sparks settle. Obi-Wan is still there. Obi-Wan will always be there.

-5-

This is beyond dreams. 

This is beyond forgiveness, or peace.

He is whole in his mind and in his body, though he has neither mind nor body. He could be the size of an atom, or encompass stars. He will learn to control who he is. He must look like himself, his true self. He knows that he must visit his son one final time to thank him, knows that he will see his daughter once more and the greatest kindness he can give her is not to let her see him.

He knows so much now.

"Hello, old friend," says a voice beside him. Obi-Wan no longer looks blue and spectral. Now he is the realest thing Anakin can perceive, and he is smiling as he reaches out. Their hands touch. Obi-Wan is warm like a smile on a perfect day or a lover on a chilly night.

It's like a dream, the best dream of all possible dreams, and Anakin will never have to wake up again.


End file.
